


Rust and Copper

by Vinsachi



Category: American Gods (TV), American Gods - Neil Gaiman
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-04
Updated: 2017-12-04
Packaged: 2019-02-10 13:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12913098
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vinsachi/pseuds/Vinsachi
Summary: When waiting for war hangs heavy, what are things to do for a mortal guy and a mythical brat in a shitty little motel room in a nameless spot of America?No justification of causes and effects – this couple is bloody hot, and that’s enough.





	Rust and Copper

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Ржавчина и медь](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12900495) by [Vinsachi](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vinsachi/pseuds/Vinsachi). 



As if all the city voyeurs got their eyes torn out and spiked on light posts. Dead orange rays pierce the air like drills, break into the closed window and crash onto two bodies buckled on the bed. Hard to understand what’s happening here: is it a fight growing into a fuck, or vice versa. The light is snatching one fragment after another from the dark, and, having seen enough, throws it back, in order to strike the eyes painfully just the next moment.

Such light is always set on interrogations – powerfully sterilizing, giving a shade of paleness even to dark skin – like his. Guilty, guilty, guilty. First of all, of the crime against nature.

When a human and a mythical being become one, even for a while – natural is just out of the question.

Although he could rebuff him, push away, throw on the floor and beat his kidneys off. Let him wallow in a puddle of diffused light, step over the body, leaving the damned bar for the sake of a chilling evening. This is neither the first fight nor the last, and the more fights he gets involved into, the easier it becomes to forget them.

But instead, there’s a room on the first floor, thick electric light, a battered mattress – just wring it out, and you gonna strain off a pretty full bucket of someone’s saliva and sperm, if not blood. 

Hands against the wall. Open the legs.

No one voices this rinky-dink – he does everything himself. Arches and stands still, like a panther before jumping. Only there will be no jump.

But instead, there will be another man’s saliva on his skin – he almost feels it hissing and evaporating - so heated their bodies are; there will be heavy breathing and hushed snicker. Enjoying life as usual, what a motherfucker. An endless life is just a series of tricks which are worth less every day. A revolting pain in the intimate depth. And a slap, vulgar and sounding.

‘Fuck.’

‘That’s what I’m doin’.’

Sudden nausea fills the throat like pungent gas, he flounders in crumpled sheets like in a stagnant pool, but he gets whelmed with a heavy press, and starts taking on a rhythm bit by bit. A strange reminiscence of a goddess with hypertrophied feminine shapes, devouring the sacrificial lovers with her womb, keeps worming its way into his head.

A device of extinct savages, a fancy of an obsessed bitch, ravings of a madman.

And another madman whose body became a living trap for a panther at bay. And a satisfied moan in a throat reeked with spirits.

Buster.

Aroar, he breaks loose from under his rival, releases himself, risking to put out several joints in both bodies, grabs the red hair and presses the pushy mug to a place where his flesh has turned into a hot stone.

Gods know (damn, they know too much!), everything should have happened differently.

Tiny claws gently scratching his skin, cool lips delivering kisses to secret places, pale breasts in cups of his palms.

She – familiar, wanted, close. A reckless butterfly rushing to light in the window of their house.

She – stained, alien, stale. A moth whose wings are fading not with pollen but with ashes.

Her tongue is slimy and nimble like an invertebrate tapeworm, the skin is cold and is about to chap, and the body with organs stitched up with surgical sutures has formalin splashing instead of blood within.

Only her memory is fresh still, and she knows what he wants, and it’s not late yet to look up into a poorly bleached ceiling and imagine her being at work there, between his opened thighs…

…and if he slightly pulls her loose hair, a tuft of tow will stay in the hand.

But instead, matter hair of such a bright color flows between his fingers that, unwittingly, he brings a palm to the face, surprised why no traces of rust are seen. The artificial street light snatches thick strands from the shade – and becomes vivid in a moment, and a mocking face in a blazing frame is looking at him, and blood is flowing from a wound newly opened on a cheekbone – slowly and quietly, as bright as pomegranate juice.

How he does want to hit him. And then, to gloat over the view of hot meat steaming in the depth of a new wound. And to take the next hit, and to rejoice in pain because now it’s the only proof of the fact that you’re still long to this world.

Seems that the kiss is covering his lips with bloating blisters. Two unknown tastes – of some booze and his own – seal his mouth with silence.

And for the first time in many months, he sees no dreams.

The morning sun brings no more warmth but, by inertia, sinks the room in flows of molten copper. He is slipping through the door stealthily, like a shadow – either a shadow of past-him, or future-him, or a composite shadow of his ancestors – he resembles all of them and no one at the same time.

Can the shadow exist in itself?

Already pushing the front door, he half-notices a vending machine in the corner.

A bottle of beer is waiting on a window sill suffused with noon light.


End file.
